Broken gears, Crooked clocks
by layalatania
Summary: Pre-HnKnA, Peter is haunted by fleeting thoughts of his life before becoming a role holder, he rekindles moments with his mothers death, his beloved brother, dreamer father and all of his crooked siblings, as it shapes him into his current self.


**I don't really know what this would be conscidered probably an eccentric or something, but it is a multi-fic about Peter's life before and when he becomes a role holder right before he goes to get Alice. **

**As a note, this is created in my idea that in wonderland that faceless people do really have identies and faces, but roleholders are unable to see that, and are unable to see their real personalties and the real wonderland around them if that makes since. It it my own intepretation i guess, Sort of like a parralell world where the faceless people are like regular people. I hope that made sense. **

**Please enjoy, critique, and as a note I do not own HnKnA.**

Peter was on the prowl, or so he told his precious tempermental queen, stalking around like a little child in a lethargic sweat through the garden. Intensely studying the fleckles of bright lit roses or so it seemed- rather he was crushing each little bud and crisilis within his fingers with sadistic pleasure watching as each flower exaulted with a crone or puff.

Still his mood was unusually demure in the sense he was much more hostile whenever he attended his meetings with the musing Vivaldi and smiling Jack, but his sour depostion was stiffled by the soft exhale of laughter fluttering against his ears.

-And that only made him ever more iratating and pitable as can be.

A woman's voice, unuasully empty despite the giggles excaping her mouth; clouded his mind and made him rather sombre. It seemed every time her voice excape no matter how enticeningly lonely made his own breath hitch sending terrible shackling tremers down his spine.

A horrible god awful tremble. A god-send shackle striking against his chest in a heavy fashion and once down destroying the meager town that was his "heart" finally settling down into the pit of his stomach with all the other dilaptated little humane feelings that swept over him from time to time. He pushed the feeling away as he did all things, and focused more so on morose and mudane thoughts that encomposed his meaningless life. Very few thoughts passed through Peter's head most of them acts of vengence, or plans of the most efficient way to spill blood, cause heartache, cause pain. It was his only feeble attempt for joy.

He mused- his mind wondering off to his most precident predicments. The laughter, the blood, all of it. A reel of emotions, thoughts and feelings he locked up long ago flooding his nerves leaving him a wreathing mess, even to a point the poor ignorant faceless maids would pour soft looks of adonation and pity behind his back.

Faceless... How simple it was back then.

One thing Peter disdained most about being a roleholder, was the disalussion associated. As a faceless child, he was not under the veil of vanity that only allowed him to see identicle puppets, but was able to see clearly the face of every creature around him, every unique impression from the crookedness of their smile, the shine of their nose and the flames of indivuality exposed in their vibrant eyes.

But now, the many different individuals he delved into were mere rements; only causing him anger, just shadowy countors upon a black canvas- maybe if he had not been such a young child when he became a roleholder he would hold more regard for the faceless world, but Peter would argue their had always been a deep hatred for every breathing being regardless if it had a face or not, long before he became a role holder.

He couldn't remember his family, not fully. Only bits and pieces here and there. Hazy images of once-beens, leaving him dazed as if he had awoken from a sick dream unaware of reality. Sometimes it would come to him at the oddest time, a voice, a touch, an odd memory fuzzy and blurred in age- he would just find himself agitated and lost. Watch in hand with his finger fastened onto the imaginary trigger looking for a target to blast his fustration into.

The more he played this character the more he seemed to forget what the world around him use to look like. The more the colors of his past died wilting into a tale of litheless monocrome. Peter wasn't sure if he wished to remember or forget at this point anymore, but it was the way of a role holder, the game molded its characters any way it had to. Through manipulation, through sick fate, torturing its victims stripping away all ties of indivuality.

He hated fate, he hated this game he played maybe even more so than he hated the empty faces of the many soldiers, maids, and storekeepers who reminded him every moment of the vibrant world he lost.

Peter looked out. There stood before him, a four of hearts. Preening at his overcoat in a cankerous way, bouncing idoly this way and that on the tips of his metal sole boots. The four stopped for a moment cautious like a little animal- eyes growing wide and hands frozen onto the hilt of his dull bladed sword; Looking around once, then twice, then again once more finally adament was nothing to fear. He was merely startled by the sudden shift in wind.

It seemed the wind followed its own course here in wonderland, not that Peter trully cared.

Lost like a child, the faceless man overturned a pretty petal between his fingers, holding it preciously with the utmost gentleness afraid he would damage it if he merely flexed his hand. The four did it out of reasurance, taking his mind away from the unwavering rush of fear pervasing his entire being. A watchful eye skirted behind him.

There was danger everywhere in Wonderland. A bullet to the back, a guntlet to the head, and even then, that was much to merciful for filthy useless faceless beings. The wretched forgetful creatures.

Life held no meaning.

Before, when Peter first arrived he enjoyed carving fear into the faceless soldiers, little by little his games of maliciousness grew into mass murdering. He was but a child, small and petulant but their within the heartless tock of his chest a sadistic malignant hatred for everything insignifcant around him... and everything was isignificant, at least in his eyes. Life meant nothing, and this game was a mere hinderence to the comforting silence he withdrew himself in.

After all no one cared for a faceless figure, as much as one might care for an abandoned cat. Either look at it in resigned empathy, or take the wretched little thing, pin its tail by the foot and watch as it claws about, take it by the throat as its mother would and slowly ring its neck. Just one more abandoned little kitten, wouldn't it be better to take it from its misery than to allow it to wonder aimlessly pilfering at anything that draws near?

He hated them, all of them, everything.

More so the fact, they could live life in ignorant bliss while he must play the game. A sick twisted game to pass eternity, and he just a tiny glint in the tapestry. He worth just as much as a faceless card, as much as a wretched abanoned cat.

Within the facelss four, was a familiarity. Peter tried not to awknowledge, the sudden tremor squeezing down upon the empty whole of his chest. Images of all of them. His entire family, a bloody canvas he helped to paint.

His own masterpiece, his own unique tribute to the game.

His family a blank page lost forever but there empty faces mattered not, for the memory of them all began to suddenly transpire, bubbling to the forefront of his mind like a hazed smoke poisoning his veins.

Peter recalled being a small child once more. Sitting their vacantly along one of the many stools scattered around their little tattered home. He had caused quite a stir, he was rather notorious for it. Where his smaller brother was praised for his gentle self-defietaitnig person, Peter was acclaimed a wretched pious bratty child who only rivaled the devil in mischief and mahem. But, as he sat there like a good little child upon the tiny blue stool, an exodus in a land of gentiles, he grew hate for everyone around him; strangely though he held no resentment for the smallest of them and looked after the boy with such unadulterated passion throughout their childhood.

Many adults would look in awe at the antithesis when not distracted by the elder ones naughtiness- the right the left, the matyr and the sinner. Hand in hand together a complete terror and a sweet angel.

Peter recalled very little of his family, Only little incriments that only spurred his irritance. Shadowy figments swiveling around his brain palpatating forgotten memories.

His mother; her hands, the way they touched his skin wrapping around him like a warm velveteen sweater, out of all of them he loved her most- his father; his frame, sallow and willowy dangling compricasiously outside the small hovel of their home, Peter despised his dreamy romanitcal nature most of all- his brother how small he was even then, a naiive creature, with the softest of voices, all his words barely a brave whisper above the crash of hobble-and-bobble of the little village upstream was the only thing that would keep him sane.

Peter's mind raced to the tower his elder siblings would make above him, scattering in a heathened mass all strugling to reach the kitchen table before the other, to either snatch the food of the weaker children or take one of the few adequete spaces to fit around the tiny round dining. He was merely one more child out of the dozens. All of them identical to the next, and no single one showing any outstanding peculiarties, for outside their eyes into the vision of a roleholder they all appeared mudane, identicle, complete nothingness.

Strangely of house of so many, he could never quite remeber how many siblings he had or most of their names, there seemed to be children popping in and out of the Easter green cottege hourly ready to bolt back and foward from one side to the other until they infected every wall crevice and door with snot, grimy fingers, and of course little pungent brews of sour food that never seemed to stay down.

Father was not the best of cooks, that Peter remembered quiet well; what little he made for the children when he was not captured in a silly folly was usually overly salted and undercooked, and at what he could afford among them was usually expired or rotting by the time it was served. What ever did last through preservation usually vanished before it hit the stove. On rare moments, their was an adequete ammount of food and fresh enough not to flood the stomach of the house, but was usually left to bare pickings by the more hesitant ones whose food was usually pilfered right from under their noses.

Most of the time the food was left to the hands of the eldest daughter of the family, Jillian who had a talent of making even the most miserable of meals a cup of water brewed coffee, and a half slice of salted bread taste like noblemens fine dining. But cooking was all that seemed to fit upon her. She was a rather, mousy woman with a crooked disposition. Always trembling away whenever anyone neared her, fearful- a simple touch would equate her to a wimpering mass of blood and tears. She was an odd one to say the least. Never did she leave the space of the the empty surface of the floor far away from the blaring fire of the furnace where the other children clamoured around fighting about each other like frompping chickens for a roost for the warmest spot.

She had not been the first who experienced the delightful pit of maliciousness from him, the scanttily delight to kill, the hastening fester to put a knife to a pumping vein, a barrel to a bleeding chest, but it was with her the guilt vanished from the first killing and the pleasure of ridding the mudane and the weak overtook him.

Peter looked on in blatant hate, his left brow twitching every turn as the skewer smell of brewing cofee slowly slithered down the throat of Demitrius and the crumpled loaf of bread quickly vanished from his plate into the mouth of Samuel an unslightly thing with beaded black eyes and fat pudged cheeks.

Much of the time he skipped morning meals, he was usually round sitting by an old wood rocker, kneeling down at his mother's feet as she cradled a small child to her chest and whispered a soft but off-key ballet into the childs ear. Despite the beautiful melodies horrible singing it still fit to put his brother to sleep. It was what he loved most about her mother, she was imperfectly perfect.

Much of the time, the song was all one could get out of her. His mother was terribly weak, and everyday she tired a bit faster than last. By the time she finished her arms would start tremble vigerously sometimes waking the child in her hands. Peter would take the baby from his mother, wipe away the long curls of sugary blonde hair falling into her face so he could analyze her eyes. Peter loved her eyes too, they were just like his. Bright feverent eyes full of passion.

His other siblings always believed a lively child is nothing more than nuisance. The passion should be beat from him, but his mother praised his passionate ways, and delighted him with praises and sweet kisses on his temple through his hair.

"You are my special child Peter." She would whisper to him, as he tried to feed her the bland ration of dumplings and cold bread. She wasn't able to eat solids much anymore, and Peter was forced much of the time to clean the soup spilling from her lips as it heaved back up unable to settle in her stomach. Most of the time he could only give her a few bites before she was tempted too spit it back up, though by that point there was nothing more left in the clay bowl but a few glumps of powder and dressing.

After breakfast drew Peter stayed at the table, all his other siblings already driven off in the attempt to sqwabble before the chores could be issued out. Gabriel, Peter's younger brother took onto his open sleeve looking up upon him with the most riddled crystaline eyes. Peter kneeled before him, gently swatting the boys fingers away from his sleeve. The child grabbed him by the face one hand pressed on each side of his jaw as their heads fell together for a few moments. Gabriel lifted up his nose brushing against his brother as he finally pushed away with one more pinch at the cheeks. Peter laughed heartedly his pale skin reddning over as reached for air use to their morning greetings more or less as the years passed.

Rising to his feet, Peter took note of his brother's hesitance. The way his hands rested stiffly onto the crooked blue table face tucked away into his neck, an act of submission, an act of realization. "Are you hungry Gabriel?" The poor child refused to look up crushing his fingers father into the cheap wood, his face flushed with a raw blotchy pink. The boy squarely shook his head trembling all over; small tears arching down his face staining his colorless hands.

Jillian passed through the arch leading from the kitchen her eyes skirting to the two young children, taking little notice of them before she disapeared from view.

Peter was well aware of his brother's growling stomach, he most surely either had his food stolen or had in an act of stupid kindness offered it up to the other small hungry children who looked upon him with begging eyes. "Didn't I tell you not to give your food away." Nodding, the boy pulled up wiping the matching tears from his eyes ashamed he sprouted them anways. "Your such a crybaby Gabriel." In return the boy took at his brother in a heinous glare, sweeping out the dining area and passed the larger children all huddled around the small furnace.

"Gabriel," One of the children called a sweet thing only a year older than Peter. Splotched with seven peppery freckles on her face, two on her nose, one on the right of her jaw, one below her left eye, another somwhere off-center on her forhead, and the last two dimpled onto her right cheek. Her petty green-grey eyes slanted upwards, she was already predestained to be quite beautiful with a short brown cropped mane teasing her chin and long slender legs, and even so young she soon caught the eyes of the many older boys of the town. But the trully important ones would never see, for their eyes remain caked in illusions.

Delilah. Her name. Possesing a slough airheadedness and annoyingly high pitched voice she called for Gabriel pulling the boy to her side. "Oh Gabbi, whats the matter you seem so hostile this morning. Has Peter stroke a sour note?" With hast Gabriel pulled from her grasp unwraveling himself from her tight fingers pressing into his back causing his face to smother into her soft stomach. He shook his head softly, looking up at the girl sweetly from under the crown of gold hair.

"Is that trully so?" One of the other children called slightly intringed by the presence of their youngest sibling. "Peter is a rather deviant child. He causes such a stir." The same child rose, catching the attention of one of the eldest an odgroynous male with long batting eyelashes, face controlled into a complete blank of placidness, eletric silvery hair tamed down into a long tangled braid crossed over his shoulder. He watched dismally, silently at his sisters. He looked away more instilled with tapered parchment caught in between his fingers.

Another loud stir caught his attention, the twins Paisley and Marley's conversation tuning loudly only for the purpose of catching the others incentives.

"He is a brat!" An elder girl spoke up, tearing into her bowwed pigtails, "A rotten spoiled thing! Trully so." She vehemented, towards her siblings under the cruel glow of the lamplight swinging above them.

Haughty-like another one pointed out,"Either he gets his way, or he wreaks havoc to obtain it," Paisley grated.

Gabriel remained immune and vacant to their terse comments use to the harsh words thrown at their beloved brother. None would show him comppasion just dictated him a delibrately naughty child who just caused all of them uneeded pain and difficulty. Creete one of the oldest children, a temprent boy bordering on the lines of adolecence and adulthood did nothing to agree with all the others, justly remaining entertained with his scribbles; for Gabriel it was uncanny the way in which Creete and Peter were so alike, but Creete unlike his brother was respected and regarded with humbleness from the sibling for he was full of an idignant wisdom. If not for that, it was because they feared him bodly.

Creete wasn't outlandish like Tindel the oldest of the males or prevoking like the twins, he was rather calm in all forms and showed little feelings toward anything at, rarely spoke at all if he ever did it was nothing more than idoism and faint chastizing.

"You all do good to forget Peter is a child," Creete voiced from the side of the blowing furnace, He still wishes to be coddled and soothed." A sudden softness took Creetes form, a sereph feature, sharp blaring red eyes unlike Peter and their mother, soft pale-blue curls tied across shoulders, he picked at with candence.

The pigtailed girl raptured trully ragedn, "Regardless brother, he is rotten! Spoiled by mother- he shouldn't be allowed to show such vehement because he feels unsettled, it isn't fair!"

"Paisley, He is just passionate, he will grow out of it in time." He threw morose look of sorts nodding up from his preening with frightening eyes. It was the reason why they feared him so; the same reason the children showed such disdainment for Peter- they both had the eyes of a devil. "He is the most so unsettled by mothers death, its why he is misbehaving to such a degree." None turned there heads in agreement, much too sour, too petty to show Peter kindness.

"Marley's right Creete. You don't see anyone else acting so devilish on mother's behalf." Paisley defended cradling the identical to her chest.

"...and yet none of us bothered to comfort her in her last moments either." Gabriel quipped at this surprised by Creete's words.

"Peter chose to burden himself with that role brother, all the rest of us had just as much affection for mother as he, it is not our fault he was never tamed from her. He is still a child, but all of us have gron from that role. We don't require to be pampered to settle brother." Demitruis one of the middle children geered, eyes glowing a dim gold within the half-light. "Look at Gabriel," To this the young boy stiffened suddenly uncomfortable at the attention of his many siblings. "He is even younger than Peter, and yet you don't seeing him being so petulant. Peter is already falling behind, he should have already started attending school-"

"School?" The twins geared simutanously, scoffing, "Do you wish for the whole primary to burn down. Give Peter the chance he would heartily stab one of the other children in the chest, I already fear he will attack someone within our own home."

"Well regardless then, he should at least be attending chores. Peter is six years old now, he can at least equip the most simpliest of task."

"Stop trying to negotiate for him Demitri, He should be punished!" Paisley griped curling her fingers savagely into her twins arm.

"He is always punished Paisley, threats and exile don't bother him." Demitrius settled, standing up from his taylored spot around the furnace, Samual looking up at him in some sort of signal to attend to him. The twins scoffed behind him watching as their little brother exited the parlor with the fatty Samual following in his shadow.

"Well wasn't that very intersting," A figure tall and languid appeared from the opposite door, his hair disheveled, and clothes askewed upon his body. "Where is the brat anyways? It wouldn't surprise me if he was listening to this conversation as we speak" The male questioned coming into the parlor and situating himself into the very center of the many children. All of them molded around him, appraising his very appearance, well excluding Creete who remained unaffected by the boy, and maybe even unknowing if he ever entered. Jillian who seemed off into her own little cloud far from them, lastly Gabriel who looked in grave trepidation at their eldest brother, apprehensive and unable to fully understand his welcoming.

"It's Peter," Marley began. "He is being so difficult. Gabriel ran in here with the signs of tears in his eyes." Paisley nodded admently in her sister's defense. "He looked so down trodden."

Delilah who was quietly spinning the tails of her skirt, ahmmed under the cold gaze of the elder siblings; trully unsure if it was what she was suppose to do- for she was neither lying nor accusing but it still felt oddly wrong. "Peter has become so difficult resently we only presumed it would be best for him to be chastize." Swiftly Marley cut an accusing look upon Creete, continuing, "We all agreed he should be fowarded some sort of punishment but Creete wouldn't waver he believes Peter is only acting out because of mother's absence, but he has always behaved this way!"

"Is that trully so? Creete what was your sugestion upon this matter. Paisley and Marley are quite right, Peter cannot just be allowed to act so callously, if I heard correctly just the other day, he was reprimended by Jonah for pinning Ms. Cristian's cat out upon a post. How horrible the body stunk, I passed by it on the way here, and saw the old croon still weeping out about it. I hear it was her only company. I doubt its normal deviant behavior of a child to embalm someones pet, not that you have any concept of normal behavior Creete."

Creete returned a blank stare at the face of his brothers grin. "I doubt any of us have a true concept on child reering brother, are behavior at Peter's age could be just as rivaling. We have all had our share in misbehavior."

He grinned once again, pulling his brown hair back, "You are very right brother."

A girl who had remained odlly quite during the whole dispute caught eyes with Gabriel for one swift moment, awarding him with the most gentle look. She pulled at her brother's sleeve, capturing the atention of Tindel. "What is it Coline?"

She spoke with a whispy qaulity, her voice gravely quiet, and yet her eyes turned in determination, for a moment the child looked so much like their mother, with such severe passionate gaze. "Demitrius believes Peter would not do well to be punished Tindel."

"Oh is that way he left so rudely when I entered?"

"...h-he believes it would do nothing to help. It would be better to give Peter something more approaite as discipline rather than trying to inflict him. I don't think Peter would to much like school, at least not now I don't think he trust to be seperated from Gabriel for to long, and I doubt father could cover to pay for his tuition. -But I hink it would do good to give him chores of sorts."

"Never! The boy will only cause more of a mess. Marley and I already have such a hard time of cleaning the place as it is."

"I never said he had to work with you." Her words were udeniably soft but still triggered with an undertone of malice for her two older petty sisters.

Tindel brushed at the falls of sandstone hair from her face, fevored with a rush of inspiration. "It is very couragous of you to offer help Coling, still I doubt anyone will willingly work with Peter. Jillian already hates to be disturbed as it is in her sanctaury. Marley and Paisley seem very adament of keeping him far away from their chores, and he is still much to young to join Samuel and Demitrius out in the yard. Coline? Do you understand?"

"He can work with me, in the garden. I already have trouble with the seasonal fruits bearing so rapidly this year, and it would soothe his soul since it was always mother's favorite place to rest, before..."

"Surely not! He would poison us."

Tindel shrugged in fake apolegetics. "Sorry Coline but it doesn't seem anyone agrees with this. You and Demitrius are still young neither of you have concept of reality. As much as you wish to push such acts of nobility, Peter is a lost cause, he is a bad child, he was born with a crooked clock. He cannot be cured." And no matter how cruel his words Tindel's smile remained coldly plastered onto his face in such a way it made Gabriel shiver to his core.

At this turn, Gabriel cowered fleeing into the kitchen barely attentive to realize Jillian had exited a long time ago.

As he entered, he was startled at the soft murmmers exchanging between her and Peter. It seemed even from his view their were signs of tears painting down Peter's face, already dried and dull. His fist shook, pushing Jillian away from him, she falling into the table with a sudden rush, he wiped at his eyes hurriedly causing them redden evenmore, "Gabriel?" Irregardless he saw it, Jillian attempting to embrace Peter to her chest in such a motherly way.

Peter left her then, never turning to capture the doll-like expression on her face. "Let's go brother." Grabbing him by the wrist he led the younger child into the parlor catching the steaming words muffled into the chest of creete.

"...I hate Tindel. Creete, I wish he would die." How little Coline looked, and how surprising it was for Creete to be coddling anyone. Their eyes caught one another, Peter exiting from the foyer with Gabriel at his tail, Creete trapped within the tears of little Coline. Some spark of idignation, of combatness brewing between them. Neither one of them ever brought the moment to light, neither did Gabriel ever question his brother's conversation with the reclusive Jillian.

Later on that day, Peter and Gabriel sat on the steps of their cottage, their mouths stained red with the tell-tale signs of raspberrys both boys had been picking from a few bushes up the path. The wind had settled, and a nice warm spell filled the air. Most of the children had not return yet, and Peter felt utterly relaxed without their presence. Gabriel for the moment was creating patterns in the dirt with a twig in delight, Jillan was beggining evening meals for the children to snack upon before they began their daily chores. Tindel had once again disapeared, and their father was nowhere to be found.

Up the path he could see the sight of Demitrius and Samual walking down from the town, even from the stump, Peter was sure of the red glare paring off of Samaul's hands and face that he too had partaken in the ripe plump berries on the way home. Coming up before them was Delilah grinning wildly as she nipped her fingers against bush rushing to get into the house. Delilah raced past Gabriel smudging his drawing with her boots, falling over his twing and hitting against the pavement. She stumbled for a second, quickly gathered herself and flew into the house. By the time she returned both Samual and Demitrius were able to enter the house, giving no idication to either children put their satchels down and return outside with their tools.

Coline reached the home quickly enough, her boots dragging through the dirt appraoching at a torturing slow speed. She was no where near the end of the path when Delilah returned her curls tossling against her face, she shoved her basket up at her chest, in a delightful manner. "Peter! Peter! Guess what?" The boy neither answered nor aknowldeged her. She pouted at this now stepping into the boy's view.

"What, Delilah." He stated more than questioned.

She twirled around her ballooning skirt cutting against Peter Cheek, "Tindel told me I can help Coline in the garden now. Isn't it wonderful. Now I get to work with the big kids, Peter." She left just as quickly gathering her skirt in one hand and gaurding the large whicker basket in the other; rushing off to Coline. From here Peter watched as Delilah spoke with such urgent delight pulling or at least attempting to pull Coline along with her. Coline petted the girls head in affection, eyes turning upwards in dismal, wavering before they returned back down towards her, as she spoke a few words.

Delilah shuffled her feet, pouting and soon left much more somberly than she came. coline reached the porch her feet scuffling against the steps once she reached the top her head bowed. her gaze, hidden behind the bind of her long hair, but Peter knew there was sorrow behind them. "I'm sorry, it's just... everything is so crooked."

Peter turned from her knowing now she was most likely crying, for she neither ventured into the house nor did she leave the step. She just kept sniffling and tears just kept falling.

And it seemed these turn of events hapened rather often, as the years progressed, but they did little to bother Peter. Eventually Coline left choosing to lamment her mourning to the brook some meters away, where they would eventually find her well into the night still there, still with tears in her eyes.

Eventually everything would break, everything would become broken, and Peter would still be Peter, crooked broken heartless Peter.

**Thank you those who have read, I hope it the first chapter was entertaining, and made sense, I tried to sort of give it that romantical style and got the whole passionate thing from the book Jane Eyre. Yes Peter loved his mommy and as a child he didn't neccairly hate all his siblings, I mean his six but as you can see he has already started some rather bad behavior and it will only get worse from here. **

**As a note I tried to make all his siblings well-rounded from here in the first chapter you only see one of their tendencies from most of them just to show their strongest point and role in the family, much like their roles- Paisley and Marley are suppose to be someone petty and bratty but they are some of the oldest and most opened to make judgements. Eventhough Paisley is the more coy one of the two and Marley the more hot-headed. Coline who doesn't appear to the end is the self-sacraficing one, who just wants to be fair and feels torn as the middle child she wants to protect the little ones, but really doesn't have a voice. Creete who is mysterious, Jillian who just has her problems, Demitri the intelligable one, and Samual the fat hog...yeah sorry about that one. Oh and of corse Deliliah. **

**For anyone interested Tindel is actually inspired by Ace, and when I was creating him I kind of got the idea Peter subconsiously dislikes Ace so much because he reminds him of his eldest brother in personality and looks. Not all of the family has been introduced, their is one more brother making twelve of them in all and Peter's father who hates, here is an exert from the next chapter. **

**Peter hated his father, standing out there, transfixed like some school girl on a useless fnacy. His father was such a dreamer. Peter hated his father more than anyone else in the world, he refused to awknoledge his mother at all passing by her coldly without a word. He never looked at her, spoke to her, he did not even try to save her portions which the small Peter had already grown accustomed to giving her his. **

Peter hated his father, standing out there, transfixed like some school girl on a useless fancy. His father was such a dreamer, and because of this he hated his father more than anyone else in the world, he refused to aknowledge his mother at all passing by her coldly without a word. He never looked at her, spoke to her, he did not even try to save her portions which the small Peter had already grown accustomed to giving her his.


End file.
